


Take Me Upon Your Hand

by Suvroc (cuteandillusion)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aw geez they ended up being really thirsty, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/F, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, I do love me some innuendo, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Light Angst, Mutual Masturbation, Sex Toys, Thirsty wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuteandillusion/pseuds/Suvroc
Summary: They couldn’t let themselves talk about it, not unless it was in code.They rarely let themselves touch for fear they’d be found out.But what if the arrangement were amended so that they could come as close as possible?1. Rome, 41 AD: A failure of seduction.2. Avalon, 537 AD: Propositions are made.3. Stratford-upon-Avon, 1601: An Arrangement amended. (NSFW)4. London, Soho, 1864: Pear-shaped.5. Tadfield Manor, Two Days Before the End of the World, 2018: One last time. (Wall Slam)6. A.Z. Fell and Co., After the not-Apocalypse, End of summer, 2018: Take me upon your hand. (Toys, Body Worship, NSFW)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47
Collections: Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020





	1. Rome, 41 AD: A failure of seduction.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirilya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirilya/gifts).



> Hello Mirilya, this gift is for you as part of the Ineffable Wives exchange 2020! I tried to work in all your prompts, which included: Aziraphale showing/demonstrating to Crowley dildos/sex toys she's collected over the millennia, wall slam, and body worship. It went a little bit off the rails, but I hope it still turned out ok!

It all started with the oysters.

Aziraphale should not have been surprised.

She wasn’t. Not really.

In the end, she was disappointed–more in herself than anything else. Chagrined. Embarrassed. A bit sad if she were being honest. (She made a point to push that down and bury it deep beneath the shame. At least she was used to the shame.)

It had all been going so well.

She’d been trying (in vain) to amuse herself with a boardgame as she sat in the wine bar, cloaked from the humans’ full awareness in order to observe them. Her mood had been much improved by the arrival of a familiar, albeit aggravated, presence, and she hadn’t realized how hungry she was for familiarity. It hadn’t even been that many years since their wavering paths had last crossed, and she felt this increase in frequency meant the Lord was smiling upon her. (That alone should have given her pause. God, presenting an angel with the company of a demon? Preposterous.)

Her excitement at seeing Crowley overrode her awareness of the demon’s frankly disgruntled attitude. All she felt was overwhelming want to swap stories with someone she could speak openly with. There was so much new that was happening, so much to discuss, and she was certain that Crowley, that curious intriguing slippery serpent, would be most receptive to such a dialogue.

Senseless, silly angel. 

They had gone to Petronius’. They ate, and they drank.

They sat much too close to each-other. A few times, their bare hands touched in reaching for the wine, and Aziraphale felt, but tried desperately to ignore, that odd sting she always did when her ethereal form met the demon’s occult one. It was a burning uncomfortable reminder that if heaven were watching them, this sort of interaction would most definitely be frowned upon.

And it had all been going so lovely.

They chatted about what had been happening in the world. Aziraphale was much interested in the invention of Christianity, the rise of written news, and bound books. The Romans were so enthusiastic about their own polytheistic religions, she couldn’t help but be fascinated. Granted, most of it had been coopted violently from the Greeks, but that didn’t stop her interest in seeing them continue to philosophize and collect it all in the written word.

Crowley huffed. “For my money, it’s the engineering. Those aqueducts were something on their own, but have you traveled the roads yet?” Gulping more wine, the demon shook her head of ruddy curls. She’d removed the rather over-bearing wreath décor from around her forehead, and the shortness of her hairdo was intriguing. Aziraphale wanted to ask her about it. “Clever humans making it easier to get from here to there. You just wait. If they only figure a way to make a carpentum that doesn’t need oxen. Or one that goes as fast as some of those navy ships.” She chuckled, finishing her drink and offering to pour some more for them both.

“Why in the world would you need to go that fast?” Aziraphale asked, cradling her cup in both hands. Her head was a bit swimmy as she attempted to imagine a horseless carriage that could speed along at the rate of the swiftest river.

Crowley topped her cup off, then refilled her own. She shrugged. “Be fun, wouldn’t it?”

“Doesn’t sound like fun to me, it sounds frightful. There are certainly other pleasures I would rather avail myself of.” She looked down at the platter. “Where did all the oysters go?”

“Some hedonistic angel seems to have slurped them all down,” Crowley said with a sideways glance.

Aziraphale pouted. She spun the platter around, checking the empty shells in case one had been missed. “They really are delightful. What do you think that was? Pepper? Vinegar? I believe I tasted something else, what, a spice?” She smacked her lips. “I am just not certain.”

“Lovage.” Crowley said slowly, and her voice sounded odd. Aziraphale looked over to see Crowley’s gaze, hidden behind those odd spectacles, leveled at her. The demon was still. As still as one of the glorious, beautiful statues placed at the temples and gardens of the city, all smooth surfaces and sharp etched edges. 

“P..pardon me?” she stumbled.

“Erm, the little green bits.” Crowley reached down to the platter and, miraculously, found one last oyster delectably topped with Petronius’ sauce. She dipped the tip of her finger into it and drew out a fragment of a leaf. “Here.” Leaning forward, she presented the offering to Aziraphale’s lips. 

A jolt pulsed through her chest.

It was not that she didn’t feel the draw of pleasures of the flesh. Her time in the Mediterranean had been increasingly pleasant in that respect. The debauchery of the orgies and the feasts were overwhelmingly terrestrial, but she was entranced by the whole scope of it nonetheless.

She was entranced, but she did not partake.

There was a certain pause that she settled into regarding the humans. Observing was fine. Reading about it and looking at artwork and enjoying the products of restaurants and wine bars was fine. The baths and the massages, both the give and the take, were enough for her, she thought. And, when all was said and done, she had learned several sensual self-relief strategies (and had a small collection of items to help with same).

But now, with Crowley’s slender hand extended towards her, with the hum of the air around another supernatural being in her midst, with a pounding certainty, she knew. She wanted to be with Crowley. Here, bodily. And Crowley, presenting the opportunity for touch, for connection, seemed to want it too.

Crowley brought her finger closer, and Aziraphale realized she had two choices. She could lick the sauce from her finger, or she could take the whole digit into her mouth. The third choice, to deny Crowley’s urgings completely, didn’t even occur to her at the time. She let her mouth fall open, not sure if this appeared innocent or scandalous. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure it must be deafening. Carefully, she lapped just the tip of her tongue to Crowley’s finger, barely touching anything but the tiny bit of briny herb.

Her mind numbed. Lovage could have been the most delicious thing in the world or it could have been a grain of sand. She never tasted it. She was surprised she didn’t choke.

The demon brought her finger to her own mouth and with a long, languid motion, sucked it clean. “You know what they say about oysters, don’t you,” she asked, more of a statement than a question. “You must.”

The room seemed suddenly stifling. 

In one lithe movement, Crowley scooped up the last oyster and held out the shell. Aziraphale eyed it like it was on fire. “Associated with Venus, they say. Represents all sorts of desires.” Crowley tilted her head, her face lax but the muscles of her long neck corded and tight. “Do you want it?”

“I…I think you should have it.”

Crowley inspected it, then looked back at the angel. “What do you desire? Is it food like this? Or is it something else?”

The room really had grown too hot for comfort. Aziraphale felt a trickle of sweat run between her bosom and a disconcerting light-headedness. “I’m not sure what you mean.” 

After an almost imperceptible hesitation, Crowley tilted the shell towards her mouth and extended her long, flexible, exquisite tongue. Aziraphale hadn’t realized it was forked. She placed the tips under the meat, then lifted the oyster and let it slide down her throat. With a second movement, she again swept her tongue over the interior of the shell, extracting all the remaining juices, swallowing perceptively. She licked clean the mother-of-pearl surface one last time and gently set the shell back to the plate.

“Remarkable,” Aziraphale breathed, staring at the mouth where that impressive tongue had darted.

Crowley, who only a moment before had performed such a daring display of seduction, seemed to reconsider. She wavered, looking behind her once, then sighed. “I probably should go.”

“What!” Aziraphale yelped a little too loudly, and they both jumped. She lowered her voice. “You can’t go now. I thought you were in Rome for a while yet?”

An anxious aura settled on the demon. “Yeah. No. Too much wine or something. I don’t know what I was saying.”

“You were asking me what I desired,” Aziraphale repeated plainly. Her face still felt hot, but now she was contemplating what in the world she could possibly do that might keep the demon in her midst for a while longer.

“Whatever. Grace and light and all that I imagine. Not hard to guess.”

“There could possibly be other things,” Aziraphale said desperately. What had happened? Had she been too slow? Had Crowley lost interest or had this all been a joke. Her mind was trying to parse the details when Crowley stood.

“Probably nothing of interest to me. The oysters were rubbish by the way, and the wine was worse. I’ll catch you later. Got a date with a despot.”

“No, wait!”

Crowley, who had already extracted herself from the table whirled and looked back. “I don’t know what came over me. Just forget it. Probably better off that way.”

Aziraphale was trying to shimmy closer and stand up, but she was getting more and more tangled in her long tunic. She grimaced at the thought that a demonic curse might be (probably was) curtailing her. ”Please, don’t go.”

With a final glance and an expression that was partly between a smirk and a sneer, Crowley mumbled, “good tempting though. Better watch out if my side catches wind of it. They’re likely to recruit you.” And she was gone. 

Aziraphale should not have been surprised.

Senseless, silly angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HISTORICAL NOTES:  
> \- [Recipe for Roman mussels from a 1st century AD cookery book, De re coquinaria or Apicius.](https://coquinaria.nl/en/roman-mussels)  
> \- Young women put lovage in their bath water to charm their objects of desire with its fragrance. And to boost their attractiveness, young ladies sometimes put a sprig of lovage in their shoes or under their skirts [(source)](https://www.britannica.com/video/180190/Overview-lovage)


	2. Avalon, 537 AD: Propositions are made.

It was 500 years before their paths crossed again.

Five-hundred years to think over how she had lusted for Crowley in a way that went far beyond what was acceptable for an angel. She tried to shut her feelings off, ignore them, or funnel them into other pursuits. Collecting scrolls and books and watching prophecies come and go. Experimentation with other implements of distraction.

She observed the changes in human wants and needs, power struggles and cultural shifts. She also saw what stayed the same. What held a certain class or sex or group down in the gullies of society to struggle and weep and pray.

Five-hundred years to think and learn and wait.

And wonder.

Until one day, quite like an apparition through the mists, Crowley appeared again.

Aziraphale had taken to living in solitude at the edge of a chilly lake, welcoming pilgrims to the place that had granted the mighty King Arthur his royal right to the throne. She was outside her hut for a bit of fresh air when the stillness was cut through by a rough, recognizable voice.

“Giving away swords again I hear?”

Crowley appeared to solidify from the edge of the forest, fog rolling around the edges of her dark robe. She was dressed as one of the followers of that shadowy cult of women whom Aziraphale had heard answered to a sorceress. Word on the street was they were looking to collect water that had blessed the holy sword of Excalibur. She knew for a fact that was rubbish—the lake wasn’t what had blessed the sword. She squinted at the approaching figures.

“Is that you Crowley?” she asked, hardly believing her eyes.

Crowley sauntered forward to where Aziraphale stood, and a bubble rose in the angel’s chest to see her again. It pressed against the back of her ribs and made them ache.

Crowley waved the group of women forward. They warily approached the edge of the lake and sank down to fill some containers with the cold crystal waters.

“Couldn’t you have picked some place warmer?” 

“What on earth are you playing at?” Aziraphale asked, trying to ignore the stress on her corporation. The demon planted herself and cocked a hip, her cape tossed casually over her shoulders.

Despite the dropping temperatures, a long dormant warmth began to creep into the angel’s cheeks.

Gone were the ringlets of Rome (of course they were, it had been centuries!) and Crowley’s red hair hung in one long braid down her spine, almost to the ground. Her eyes were shaded by dark quartz glasses that had a bejeweled setting above the bridge, making her look a bit like a bug.

“I’m here on orders from hell to, er, support the downfall of the king of course. Make trouble. Y’know.” She sniffed. “The usual.”

“Oh. Well. I’m here to support King Arthur in his valiant pursuits.” She looked back as the women drew their dripping hands from the water and stoppered the bottles.

“Huh.” Crowley moved a step forward, then back. “Funny us both ending up in this damp place. Kind of like we’re sort of… meant to be here.”

Aziraphale’s guts lurched.

“Together,” said Crowley, in a way that made it sound like she had a bone stuck in her throat.

“What?”

“Canceling each other out I mean,” Crowley continued hurriedly. 

Aziraphale retreated towards the door of the hut behind her, even as Crowley, apparently sensing the moment slipping away, picked her way across the muddy ground to join her at the stoop. The demon peered at her, and she drew back from the examination.

“Seems like we could take a while to discuss it maybe? I assume if you’ve been observing the humans as long as I have you will have noticed, well, they’re quite adept at pursuing their own fates.”

“Lady, we must be off!” one of the women called from behind them.

Crowley bit her lip and looked to be aiming for a ‘see what I mean?’ expression. 

Aziraphale’s mouth had fallen open a tad. “You mean here? With me?”

Crowley shrugged. “Well not like that. Just to discuss things. Ideas. An idea.” From behind the glasses, Aziraphale saw her eyebrows rise. When she refused to answer, Crowley kept talking. “Um. That is to say, not that I would ever consider any sort of agreement with you, oh heavenly… beast. But, rather, just a more fitting way to go about this. This.” She twirled her hand around absently.

Aziraphale wavered.

“Situation,” she landed on.

Five-hundred long years of waiting, and wondering, and hoping. And now, with the object of her desire before her, she realized she couldn’t do it. Not yet. She shook her head. “Foolish hellspawn,” she decried a little too loudly, “attempting to… to challenge my immortal soul! I’ll not have it! Not another word!”

Crowley nodded a distractingly long time before she spun to leave in a dramatic swoosh. As she and her coven retreated back into the dim woodland, she looked back over her shoulder, and Aziraphale could swear she saw the corner of one eye crinkle, as if Crowley were winking behind those preposterous spectacles. She didn’t hear anything with her ears, but she plainly read, in that most versatile method of human communication, what the wink said. And what it said was… 

_ challenge accepted. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very much a believer in [Two Cakes](https://sqbr.tumblr.com/post/92103436228/the-artist-putting-a-simple-cake-next-to-a-much). There should be tons more Lady of the Lake / Morgan le Fay takes on these two in Arthurian Britain (lake, sword, moral ambivalence, Morgana having traditions of healing and prophecy that have been removed to portray her as an antagonist, the unpredictable duality of her nature, with potential for both good and evil...) This is my own little contribution, but also check out Wyfe and Quene by seterasilence.
> 
> Also, in the "[purposefully anachronistic](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/186798073816/hello-mr-gaiman-i-have-a-question-about-the)" / "preposterous spectacles" department, I am now low-key obsessed with [third](https://attic.city/item/80w/third-eye-shades-in-yellow/hunt-and-gather) [eye](https://www.steampunklot.com/products/third-eye-sunglasses) [sunglasses](https://www.etsy.com/listing/772652140/third-eye-sunglasses-rave-festival?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=third+eye+sunglasses&ref=sr_gallery-1-6&frs=1&cns=1).


	3. Stratford-upon-Avon, 1601: An Arrangement amended.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steamy Shakespearean wives! Rated NSFW for mutual (manual) masturbation and enough alcohol to have Crowley remove her glasses.

“I have a proposal,” Aziraphale said, many years on from that brief meeting. Many years, and many tries and fails at coming up with the exact words, or lack thereof, to explain to one another how they were going to make this work. 

“A bit of an, addendum if you will.”

The words _to the Arrangement_ , were implied.

They’d spent part of that pleasant day attending a performance of _The Merchant of Venice_ , one of William’s less gloomy ones, and Crowley was in a playful mood. They’d already debated the merits and quality of mercy, going back and forth quoting portions of Portia’s noble speech on the topic, and had reached the point that they undeniably did after too many drinks, too much talking, and too many near-misses of the want that threatened to overtake them both. The evening (and the wine) were far enough gone that Crowley had removed her glasses and set them, folded neatly, on the humble book-strewn tabletop nearby.

“Mmmmm,” Crowley collapsed into a pile of her own skirts on Aziraphale’s bed in the small Stratford-on-Avon flat. She held a glass of red wine and swirled it precariously close to the rim. “I like the sound of that. Do go on.”

“Two things really.” Aziraphale tossed another log into the fireplace and stoked it, making the air in the room comfortable for even the most cold-blooded of creatures. “Addendum A. We cannot be caught talking about such things that threaten our standing within our respected employs.”

“I don’t respect mine,” Crowley griped.

Aziraphale turned. “What I mean is, there are certain things I will always deny.” She affected her most predictable holy tone. “It is my nature, it is my purpose.” She dropped back into her normal voice, ”but perhaps I can make an indication to you in another way.”

Crowley’s brow was furrowed, and she sipped her wine but said nothing.

“I would propose,” Aziraphale pointed to her own glass of red wine. She shook her head. Then she shuffled over to where Crowley reclined and plucked a white down feather from the featherbed. She held it out and nodded.

Crowley nodded and shook along with her. "No wine, yes feathers?"

“Red,” Aziraphale shook her head. “White,” she nodded.

“That works. What’s the next part?”

Aziraphale took a breath. They had done this now, dozens of times, mostly in a way that could be explained away as a mistake if it ever came to that. After much internal turmoil, she realized she needed reassurance that their trysts were both something they wanted to continue, and something they had to keep secret. She slid onto the bed next to the demon. “Addendum B. At times, I believe you are attempting to corrupt me, and I want you to know that, no matter how hard you try or what you do,” she locked eyes with the demon, “or how long you work at it, I shall not be corrupted. You may try and try and try, but it will never work.”

Crowley narrowed her gaze and tilted her head one way, then the other. “Ah. You mean then also, you will attempt to show me the evil of my own ways, and how one can only succeed by having a clean mind, even in the most corruptible actions?” She rose up like a cobra, her long lean form curving in a way that defied the human spine. She set her glass aside.

“Would you agree to these additions?”

Bringing her lips close to Aziraphale’s cheek, but not touching, she whispered. “White.”

Aziraphale let out her breath and turned to face Crowley. “Do not try to tempt me, fiend.”

Crowley’s hands were already working at her own boddice, undoing the fastenings. “It’s not tempting if you want it before you even see the offering. I know you’re weak, and I will show you how weak you really are.” She yanked the garment loose, flung it to the floor, and shimmied out of the layered tunic and top. He small pert breasts always took Aziraphale’s breath away. She gazed at them as she began to undo her own bodice.

“You will never corrupt me. I will show you the evil and errors of your ways. I will show you how even in the deepest darkest depths of such depravity, I remain pure of heart.” It was nothing but claptrap, and they both knew it, but it was at least a guise, a cover, something to argue in court. A protection.

“You know,” Crowley said, her voice grown quiet and rough as she slithered out of the rest of her clothing, “if I were to really want to challenge your piety, you would allow me to loosen those clasps at your back, unthread that fine silk cord. Think you can handle it?”

Aziraphale felt the heat rise in her face, a heat that had little to do with the warmth of the room. She reached back and threaded her fingers through her hair, twisting her locks to expose the back of her neck. “And I to you say - do your worst. I will never be swayed.” She leaned back and let Crowley’s fingers touch the fabric but not the flesh. Felt the fasteners release in such a hurried fashion there must have been a miracle involved.

The front of her own dress pealed away, and she felt as if the maddening butterflies in her torso had been released. Stretching the sides of her neck with a pop and a crack, she peeked back at Crowley.

Crowley, long, lean, nude beauty that she was, had one hand hovering over Aziraphale’s back, and the other petting down the silken scarlet patch between her legs. Aziraphale could see her swallow, see her mouthing words she wanted to say out loud.

_beauty_

“Hush, you,” Aziraphale fought the devastation of that unuttered word. She turned herself and reclined, one arm braced over a pillow. She slipped out of the final layers of her outfit and ran a hand down her side, tracing the smooth rolls and dips to her hip, the roundness of her belly and breast, ending up with fingertips teasing and rolling her nipple to hardness. She gasped at the feel, and at the thought she let drift through her mind. The thoughts she could not speak.

_if these were your fingers, if this was your hand, how would you touch me? how would you use me?_

She lay the flat of her warm soft palm to her breast, pressing it, grabbing it with desperate want. Rolling to her back, she let her other hand mirror the motion, feeling the heat and the pressure and imagining her hands were controlled by the red-haired demon in her bed. Tweaking her nipples, pinching almost too hard. Wanting to give in.

She tilted her head to see Crowley on her side, one leg canted in a triangle, her hand touching, rubbing, stoking that dangerous private spot that brought such pleasure. She wasn’t listening to the nonsensical array of lies pouring from Crowley’s thin expressive lips, only gazing at her hand, her arm, the way her red hair cascaded down so perfectly over her pointed, freckled shoulders.

 _i want to touch you,_ she thought, and felt a harsh pierce of sorrow. She attempted to banish the idea imediantly as an impossibility.

That is why they did it this way. They had to.

She heard a strangled sound from across the short space between them and opened her eyes, not realizing she had let them fall shut.

Crowley had her hand at her own throat and was stroking herself. She mouthed a word again, and Aziraphale gasped.

_you_

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said out loud. “I am mistress of my own body, and the pleasure you pull from,” her breath caught as she drew one hand to her mouth, and the other down over her chest, through the curls above her private area, down to rub and play around the entrance that grew damp and swollen. “That you pull from yourself is but a mockery of the feelings I hold for myself.”

Crowley sunk two fingers into her slit and moaned.

Aziraphale felt waves of want and desire, love and devotion and the ache to see her.

 _yes_ , she thought but did not say. _do that. pleasure yourself. give yourself everything you desire. please please i want to see it. again. i always do._

The angel’s human form was a welcoming one; it was warm and soft. The way it settled into the soft downy bed, the way it wanted to roll up against her hand, the way the skin of her thighs and her calves felt as they slid against one another, against the blankets and the coverings, shivering not with a chill but with carnal hunger.

She began to rock back and forth, rubbing that spot above her opening that felt so very good.

Crowley made another noise. A gasp. She was grasping the sheets as she thrust into herself. She groaned and ground down, letting her knuckles curl and her thumb stroke roughly against that patch. Wildly she looked around, then grabbed a pillow and thrust it between her legs, leaving her hand sunk deep within.

“Oh fuck, angel, I’m going to make myself come.”

Aziraphale gasped. “Never never never,” she chanted, her breath coming hot over her hand as she tried to stifle her cries. “Never never, do you hear me?”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Crowley’s voice was loud and rough as she continued to thrust against the pillow. “Noooooooooo!”

Aziraphale felt her orgasm rising, she could feel the height of it like an elusive quarry. She leaned into her thrust, and suddenly felt the thick padding of the pillow held firm and fast against her.

“I have you,” Crowley said from above her, holding the pillow over Aziraphale’s groin. Crowley pressed down and worked her hand within herself, riding the edge of her arousal.

“Never,” Aziraphale whispered, and closed her eyes again. She could feel the point where Crowley leaned, separated, but right there. In her bed, atop her. She imagined Crowley’s forked tongue working into her, every part of her. Aziraphale’s mouth licked and lapped at her fingers and rutted against her hand and felt the crest approaching. She moaned and opened her eyes, locking them upon the golden gaze of the demon.

“Ohhhhhhhh,” her breath coming in fast hot panting gasps. “Ohhhhh!”

She felt it overtake her, wash over her like an enveloping wave. She heard Crowley hissing and felt the pressure on the pillow disappear as the demon tossed it aside and collapsed to the bed once again. Aziraphale convulsed her legs, once, twice, feeling her orgasm ebb, the walls of her tensing with each movement. The pulse in her neck pounded.

“Oh.” She smiled through her gasps. “Oh. Oh you foul thing.”

“Heh,” Crowley’s own voice was quiet and breathy. “You put up a good fight.”

“Mmmmmm,” Aziraphale sighed and pulled a woolen blanket to cover herself. Crowley did the same with a quilt and shimmied closer, enveloped in the fabric. They leaned in, pressing closer together, feeling the ripples and bumps of each other between the cloth: knees and toes and hips and elbows. Anything they could to prove they were really there.

Crowley gazed at her and mouthed a kiss from across the expanse. It almost felt too good to allow, too dangerous to return the gesture.

“Well, I’d call that a draw,” Crowley said, seemingly unaware of, or choosing to ignore, the slight. “Mmmm. Best be on your guard. I’ll get you next time.”

_Next time._


	4. London, Soho, 1864: Pear-shaped.

Next time came. And the next time after that. And the next time after that.

Aziraphale introduced the devices she’d been collecting over the years. Objects that hastened their ability to find pleasure with their bodies. Wax carved into certain shapes that slid inside and fit just so. Smooth wood and stone items from Japan and China.

She brought books to bed, both to titillate and to lull them into a slow, sleepy trance after the passing exertion. They read poetry to one other, the steamiest sections of literature, the description of acts that raised their brows and made them laugh but that they tried to the best of their abilities. Switching up their efforts was always an offer, and they could try on other constructions as easily they tried on lingerie (it was Crowley who suggested leather straps, who brought boxes of silk and cotton garments so fragile they appeared to have been made of smoke and spiderwebs), but there was also something to returning to their standard presentations that felt right. At least that was Aziraphale’s point of view.

The feedback loop was never-ending. Well. Not never. Until the end of the world, but that, hopefully, was still a way off. (The last Aziraphale had seen in any of her many books of prophecy stated that 1873 would be the next date they would need to be on “high alert”, but, since none of the last 100 or so predictions had come true, she was not too greatly concerned.)

In London, in 1862, Aziraphale had found even more to add to their clandestine adventures.

_Novelty items_

_Massager_

She giggled reading the adverts. 

It had been around 60 year since she had opened the bookshop, 840 years since the arrangement, and 18 hours since she had last had the pleasure of seeing Crowley. That was soon to be remedied, and she could not wait to share her excitement.

She flipped idly through a copy of _Bentley’s Miscellany_ , awaiting the demon’s arrival. Adverts for vibrating devices that would treat any of a manor of ailments, from depression to dropsy, splashed across the pages. Many showed a grinning woman standing nearby, obviously thrilled with the relief she had found. Aziraphale shook her head.

The bell to the bookshop chimed and Aziraphale felt her smile grow. How, after all this time, Crowley’s presence could still arouse her in that way, she dared not imagine.

“Dirty mutton-shunters!”

The door banged shut at the epitaph, and Aziraphale’s face fell. Oh dear. She closed the magazine and looked up.

Crowley stalked in.

“I need a favor.” 

She paced. She looked a wonder, and she paced. Upset. Desperate. Pent up energy with nowhere to go.

Aziraphale stood and walked past her to latch the door, flipped the bookshop sign to ‘closed’, and drew the shade. Her skin felt squiggly. Something was definitely wrong. Seeing Crowley all pacey and annoyed set her on edge. She was hesitant to admit it, but she did not like when Crowley was in a mood. She could deal with it, she had for ages now. It didn’t mean she enjoyed talking the demon down off whatever shelf she’d hoisted herself onto. 

For instance, Crowley rarely shared what was bothering her without prompting, so Aziraphale sighed and asked the triggering question.

“Something up?”

Crowley growled. She stalked over to the old sofa and flung herself dramatically onto it. As she often did, she wore her spiffy black riding trousers and a scarlet-lined coat. They were rarely observed unless they chose to be, so it wasn’t as if her choice of legwear created much scandal (unless she wanted it to). 

“I’ll say.” Crowley glared at the ceiling. “Many somethings. Many pus-festered, gibfaced, rat-bagged somethings!” 

“You appear to have worked yourself into a lather. Perhaps you could go out and set fire to something before we go on?”

“Won’t help.” She growled. “You know that’s not my thing.” She waved her snake-headed walking cane in the air. “It’s this whole fussing world. This. Whatever. The whole of the ‘whatever’ seems to have it out for me.”

“Well, although that is a very specific and pointed description, I still feel I am at a loss.”

Through gritted teeth Crowley ground out, “I can’t get my head straight. Things are getting complicated, and after that violet-eyed infection Gabriel came in here last…”

“Red,” Azriaphale said sharply, and Crowley closed her mouth with a snap. “Red, my dear.” 

Aziraphale tentatively returned to her desk and set her hand on the periodical she had been reading earlier. She flipped it open. Gabriel had been oddly present on Earth over the past few decades, and the visits never put Aziraphale at ease. At the bookshop opening, when there was the momentary threat of being recalled back to heaven, well, that had been a shocking splash of cold water on the many years of avoiding scrutiny. She sighed to think of it. Perhaps they had gotten a bit careless. 

“Is there anything specific, or is this an overall feeling of agitate?”

Crowley shuffled around until her limbs were covering every angle of the piece of furniture in what appeared to be the least comfortable way possible. “’Hopefully the latter.”

“There may be a remedy,” Aziraphale said, attempting to reunite with her former mood. She let her eyes drift down, ignoring the keyed-up demon who wriggled miserably on the sofa, and instead read one of the adverts out loud. “Suffer from nervousness? Irritability of temper? Fear? Dread? Neuralgia?”

Crowley had stilled; her face was still contorted, her breathing still elevated. But she was listening.

“Hysteria? Disturbed sleep? Melancholy? Insomnia?” Aziraphale raised her eyes.

“Yeah sure come on, what are you on about? What is it?”

Aziraphale’s gaze slid to a white box on her desk. The box she had been anxious to present to Crowley from the moment it had arrived by post.

She picked it up and went to sit at the demon’s side, tapping Crowley’s red-soled low-heeled lace ups to get her to remove her feet from the sofa. Crowley did so but sunk her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders like a pouting child. Aziraphale, possibly from a little more height than necessary, dropped the heavy box into the demon’s lap. Crowley made an “oomf” noise and looked down.

The writing on the label read: “Doctor Swift’s Portable Electro-Vibrator, aid that women appreciate.”

Aziraphale expected a laugh. A chortle at least.

Instead Crowley took a breath, inhaled her own spit, and started coughing.

Aziraphale let her struggle. She sat, as prim and proper as any Victorian maid, calm as a lazy cat, her face a study in relaxation. Absently, she wished for a cup of tea to sip.

She waited as Crowley attempted to recover and come up with some sort of an answer.

“Is this what I think it is?” she finally sputtered.

“Yes. A means of relaxation. Relieving tension.” She moved her penetrating gaze with measured force down the length of Crowley’s body and with a blink, returned it like a gunsight to her face. “Letting off some steam.”

“Sst…” she began, then coughed again and bit her tongue.

“You are wound up. Your muscles and body need release. And you can’t,” she added with another slow blink, “expect to corrupt me in the shape you’re in.”

There was something behind those shaded glasses, the ones she’d started to wear that shielded even the periphery of those golden orbs. A want, but also, an angry hesitation.

“Why would it make any sense for you to do that?”

Aziraphale considered this. “Well, wouldn’t be very sporting of me otherwise.”

“Ssssporting. Right.” She licked her lips and shrugged. “Sssso how’s it supposed to work?”

Aziraphale plucked the box back and started undoing the cardboard flap. “I believe, for a start, it would be much better if you were to remove your coat and stay a while.”

Crowley pulled her hands from her pockets and started unbuttoning her jacket. As she moved, though, one of the pockets turned inside out and a note fell to the space between them. They both stared down at it.

“What’s this?”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

With speed, they both reached to pick up the scrap, and Aziraphale won the race.

There, on the ivory paper, scrawled in the demon’s own hand, were two words.

“Crowley?”

The demon froze. “I said I needed a favor.”

Aziraphale looked from the words, then back to Crowley’s face. Then back to the note as if she were trying to decipher another language. It was as if she were trying to will the ink to rearrange and spell something else. Anything else.

“Out of the question.”

“Why not?”

Aziraphale looked up again, the frivolity of her planned evening rapidly evaporating. Holy water. Holy water! She might as well have asked for…. Well. She couldn’t even comprehend anything worse.

“It would destroy you!” It would. Utterly and completely. From everything. She couldn’t concentrate on the thought. She’d spent so much time discovering this missing piece of her existence, the idea of it disappearing for good made her mind go blank. 

Crowley stood from the sofa, one hand clutched around her walking cane as if she actually needed it for support. “That’s not what I want it for. You think my lot hasn't been asking some pretty pointed questions lately?”

“Your lot!” Aziraphale stood up as well, the vibrator falling with a loud clang to the floor. “Questions! Do you know what would happen if my lot found out about our little ‘friends -with-benefits’ arrangement?”

Crowley gaped. “Benefits!”

“Well whatever you wish to call it.”

“I have plenty of other friends to pal around with, angel. I don’t need you!”

The words stung in a way that such phrases hadn’t before. Before, they had always been playing a role, reciting a line. The reality of the situation, the deadly ask, it cut like the sharpest blade. Aziraphale stalked to the door of the shop and flung it open, unlocking it with a thought. “Well the feeling is mutual, obviously!”

“Obviously!” The lanky demon strode out the exit without turning back. Aziraphale flung the note after her, and it incinerated in the air. She slammed the door and walked back into her empty shop, her arms trembling. The white cardboard box with its cheery label lay half-opened on the floor, the silver item within gleaming at her like an accusation.

She kicked it into a corner. 

-

Time seemed to pass more slowly after that.

The demon disappeared from her consciousness like a half-remembered dream, and Aziraphale tried not to care. She knew the infernal creature was still here, on Earth, in London even, but the impression of her stagnated.

Aziraphale tried to be flippant. She went to the seaside. Attended poetry readings. She joined a women’s book group and hosted meetings at the shop. When certain urges became too much, she attended parties and soiree where she allowed herself to let loose, drink as much as she pleased, and learned an utterly frivolous and fantastic dance. 

Still.

When their lives again intersected, as they aggravatingly, annoyingly, irrationally always did, this time in the soon-to-be-ruins of a church, Aziraphale couldn't hide from the truth any longer. And it was then, over a satchel of saved books she admitted, with an ever-growing ache, with a shock-that-wasn’t-actually-a-shock, that Crowley was the love of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HISTORICAL NOTES  
> \- Great apologies to [Richard Bentley](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bentley%27s_Miscellany), as his monthly literary magazine would not have contained the adverts mentioned. I just couldn't help but include the magazine due to the name.  
> \- I also couldn't stop myself from including a Victorian vibrator subplot, although a.) the first vibrator wasn't invented for another 10 years or so, and b.) there is still some debate over the actual use of these devices for "relaxation and stress relief for the discerning gentle-being." I plead artistic license. (Either that, or the wives were having more of an effect on their surroundings than any of us realized.) [I will admit to being suckered in by Dr. Swift's poster.](https://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/vintage-nude-suggestive-poster-dr-288282914)  
> \- I did have a grand time researching ladies trousers while writing this and found [this entry](http://www.katetattersall.com/victorian-women-in-trousers-pants-pantaloons/) from the kate tattersall blog to be most informative. Crowley would have worn riding breeches, acrobat (!) pantaloons, or nurse-related battlewear. Although I am sure she rid herself of horses at her earliest convenience, I believe she would have appreciated the aesthetics of riding wear the most. (Or maybe I'm just projecting.)  
> \- It's a tie for me if I enjoy Shakespearian or Victorian slang more. I got to call Gabriel a "bull’s-pizzle" in another fic, so I had to find a different insult here!


	5. Tadfield Manor, Two Days Before the End of the World, 2018: One last time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: wall slam, technically first kiss

And then the end arrived. And the clock started ticking. And they had to work together.

The race to save the world, to save all that they knew, eventually brought them smack-dab to the birthplace of antichrist. Strangely, the moment, which should have been one of tense inquiry and danger, felt comfortable. Like something she could handle. Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed she was falling back into old habits, old patterns, growing careless with her thoughts and actions, until it was too late.

Although the world was ending, it seemed to have been going so well. 

“You know, Crowley, I’ve always said, deep down, you are quite a nice—”

In a flash, Crowley’s fingers flew into the air and snapped once. Aziraphale had just registered that time had frozen when she felt her sturdy frame teeter with the weight of the demon against her. From years of practice, Crowley understood the power of inertia and leverage, and before she knew it, Aziraphale found herself crowded up against the wall, the demon’s sharp-nailed fingers white-knuckled at her shirt collar. Her pelvis rocked once against sharp hips.

Crowley pushed her face close to Aziraphale’s. “Just shut it! I’m a demon. I’m not nice.”

But Aziraphale wasn’t listening to the words. She felt the sparking touch again, this time from the soft bump of Crowley’s nose to hers. There was truth to what Aziraphale had said, and perhaps she should regret it. She shouldn’t have let that slip out. It was only what she told herself about Crowley. What she believed about this friend of hers, this… this.. she didn't want to name it what it was. This 'thing' between them. Her eyes drifted to Crowley’s snarling mouth, and oh she was close. As close as they had let themselves get since things started spinning out of control.

“I’m never nice.”

_you are though. you save people. you perform miracles. you try to do no harm. you want to be gentler than you are meant to be._

_i know about the plants, Crowley. i know that the nice lady in your building has a veritable greenhouse in her flat because of you and your silly head games._

She couldn’t draw her eyes from Crowley’s mouth, her red-stained lips. She let her body hang limply in her grasp.

_this could be it, you know. of course you know. you must._

“Nice is a four letter word.”

_so is kind. so is good. so is…_

“I will not—”

Aziraphale closed the gap and kissed her.

If time wasn’t already frozen, she would have sworn the planet stopped.

If the world weren’t actually about to end, she’d think it had all just vanished around them.

She kissed her. She felt Crowley lips, finally, on hers. She moved her mouth against her, finally. She tasted that forbidden fruit, finally.

_finally!_

The kiss was warm and sparkly and magic and dark. She was certain the wall behind her must have crumbled away like the fallen church. Her hands, as if guided, rose and clutched the hem of Crowley’s jacket. Just the edge. She felt more than heard Crowley whimper into her mouth, then felt a surge as the demon released her grip on Aziraphale’s shirtfront and grabbed both her hands.

Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley held her hands tighter and did not stop kissing her.

It had never been real, that pain, that sting. That ache she’d imagined so well that she felt it in her nightmares. It wasn’t an actual hurt, and now she was sure of it. What she felt, after the initial jolt of Crowley grabbing her hands, after the electric shock of their lips coming together, was peace. What she feared was Gabriel’s judgement, Sandelphon’s wrath, Michaels apathy, Urial’s resentment. What she feared was the retribution that hell would take upon Crowley. 

But now, Crowley kissed her, noises of want and desire aching from her throat. Her tongue dove into Aziraphale’s mouth and the angel submitted to it, wanted to lie back and have her take her fill.

t _ake all of me. take of me._

She drew their hands up between them and kissed them both, then kissed Crowley’s mouth again, drunk with it. Spinning. It had to go on forever. It must.

It couldn’t.

“Oh what have we done?” Crowley’s quiet, breathy question left her lips, and Aziraphale opened her eyes. There were streaks from behind the sunglasses. Trails of wet down her cheeks, and Aziraphale wanted to kiss them away.

“Shhhh,” she said instead. “Just once more—”

She barely got the words out before the demon crashed up against her again, only this time, her hands released and wrapped around the angel’s body. Aziraphale was pulled in tight, desperately, crushingly. They gripped each other like they were both about to fly apart. Like they were the only things to hold themselves together. They kissed like they had never kissed before because they hadn’t. And they might not again.

Crowley was shivering. Aziraphale knew she couldn’t hold time back forever.

“I wish you could,” she said, understanding there was no context.

Crowley drew back shakily. She was struggling, struggling to hold on, to keep them from disintegrating into a million fragmented shards, to stay cool and strong and together. “I can’t.”

Aziraphale reached up and touched the corner of her mouth, swept the pad of her finger over the edge of where Crowley’s lipstick had bled just a little. “I know.”

“We’ll make it through this, angel,” she whispered, “I promise.” 

And with a snap, they were thrown back into the storm.


	6. A.Z. Fell and Co., After the not-Apocalypse, End of summer, 2018: Take me upon your hand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Rated E for getting together!  
> Prompts: Aziraphale's sex toy collection, body worship (for seasoning)

The storm passed. And with it came the wash of the world, afresh and anew. The same, but in a way, never the same again.

The mantle of shame and unease that had threatened to smother them for so long was lifted from over their heads. Just. Poof. Gone. The cage door flung open and the birds set (terrifyingly) free.

They’d returned to the bookshop after dining at the Ritz, and Aziraphale was busy opening a bottle of something when Crowley meandered into the small kitchen and leaned against the doorframe.

“We made it.”

“Did we dear?” Azirphale struggled with the corkscrew. “I thought the same until that delivery officer set me to rights. To be honest, I felt a bit of a spectator.”

“No,” a breath ghosted over the side of Aziraphale’s neck and she almost dropped the bottle. Like a silent serpent, Crowley had glided closer and stood behind her, speaking softly in her ear. “We made it. We’re still here.”

Aziraphale slowly set the bottle aside. The tension in the small room had suddenly ratchetted up a level. 

“Well,” she finally eeked out. “I do appreciate a promise kept.”

She turned and faced Crowley. With new appreciation she took her all in, every accursed inch of her. From her long legs, poured into paintskin tight jeans, to the snake-headed belt she wore cinched as tight as she’d worn wasp-waist corsets in days gone by. The way her jacket fell open just so, revealing her décolletage, the black choker she wore. Her hands were folded over her narrow chest and her throat exposed, lines of her neck tracking gracefully up to behind her ears, like a drawing of mathematical precision and balance. 

Her temples, though, were drawn tight, her clenched jaw revealing the nervousness she still held.

“So,” Crowley asked, and they were standing ever so close once again. “Now what?”

“Well,” Aziraphale managed. “Whatever we like.”

Crowley’s foot tapped loudly on the wooden floor. As soon as she realized she’d done it, she stopped and looked to the side.

“Do you want a drink?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley inhaled through her nose. Shook her head.

“No,” Aziraphale murmured. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Heh,” the noise barked from the demon’s throat, and she sniffed, her body seeming torn between collapse and flight.

How do you move forward after 6,000 years of forced hesitancy? How do you decide what to do next, when you can do anything? They stood silently in the kitchen until Azriaphale reached out and took Crowley's hand. The narrow fingers moved momentarily as if to draw back, then folded tightly in a vice-like grip. That glorious throat swallowed, and her nervous lip quivered.

"You can say it," Aziraphale whispered, as she felt the waves pouring from the demon's heart. Crowley made a noise partly between a sob and a laugh. Shook her head. Squeezed her even tighter as if drawing courage from their joined hands. 

_i know_

"I love you."

"I love you, too," Aziraphale said.

Crowley looked as if she might break down further, and so it was with great relief when her next words were to ask, “can I hold you?”

“I would rather like it if you did,” Aziraphale choked out.

Crowley inched herself closer, still focused on some vacant spot in the distance, and Aziraphale drew in. She concentrated on being present for the experience, as Crowley pulled them together. She held her like she were a dandelion puff at first, as gentle as a soap bubble, as if the angel were brief and unreal. In response, Aziraphale hugged Crowley like she wanted to meld them together, to spark them like a forge and mold their shapes into one. The demon sighed, dropped her shoulders, and it was as if the crush of the world crumpled her into Aziraphale’s waiting embrace.

“You smell good,” Crowley said into the curve of her neck. “You smell like honeysuckle.”

Aziraphale felt as if Champaign flowed through her veins instead of blood. They swayed together and she moved so that her cheek was resting gently between Crowley’s breasts, one of Crowley’s hands cradling the back of her head, fingertips finding scalp, nails tracing intricate lines on the back of her skull. She realized absently the lines were a simple protection sigil. She wondered if the demon even knew she was doing it.

“Can I ask some questions?”

“Please.”

“Do you want to have sex?” asked Crowley.

“I do,” Azirpahle murmured against her.

Crowley petted through Aziraphale’s hair and rested her chin atop her head. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

Aziraphale felt a smile burst over her lips. “Yes,” she said, and her joy was laced through her voice like a rhythm underlying a melody.

“Uh, alright.”

“Do you want sex,” Aziraphale drew back, “with me?”

“I want you,” Crowley stated without hesitation. “Want to do stuff with you. Make you happy.” She gazed down, finally finding focus on Aziraphale’s face. “Would this make you happy?”

Instead of answering the question, Aziraphale slid her warm soft hands up Crowley’s chest, over her clavicle. She rested then at the crux of her shoulder and neck. “I dream of you, Crowley. I think of you and your body and my body and the ways we’ve been together and the ways we’ve kept apart. I have found great pleasure from this form and enjoyment from yours, and I want to see them together. Feel them. I want you to feel the wonderful things I have felt. I want us to feel them together and share them.”

“Stop it.” Crowley gritted out, but there was no malice, only a blushing embarrassment. “Stop thinking about me. It’s humiliating.”

She let her thumb run over the demon’s collarbone in little tender circles. ”I am done pretending. I won’t stop thinking about you. And I shall say whatever I like. And the truth is, I want you too.”

“OK.”

“OK?

“Yeah. Show me.”

She took the demon’s hand and led her upstairs.

Once behind the closed door of the bookstore flat’s small bedroom, they kissed long and unhurriedly. Crowley’s body was a slithering ribbon, exempt from rules of earthly corporation, curving and rolling against her with both mundane heat and extrasensory existence. Aziraphale let go, falling into Crowley’s mouth and arms and letting her touch her on every level of existence. It was divine.

“Mmmmm, alright,” Crowley reinstituted herself to her more stable form again. “You don’t still have that Dr. Swift thing do you?” She rocked back and forth where she stood, a curve lifting at the side of her mouth. “I feel a pinch right,” she pointed to the side of her neck. Then, seeming to remember she still wore her sunglasses, removed them and gazed longingly at Aziraphale as she tapped the spot. ”Right here.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale was grinning like a fool, finding herself weaving back in mirror image, as if they were both drifting on the same faint musical score. “I… I’m not sure. That was more novelty than anything. But, ah. I do. Have other. Implements. Of a more, contemporary sort.”

Like firecrackers in the night, Crowley’s eyes all but glowed. Aziraphale reluctantly let go of her and went to her closet. There, she pulled out a tartan-covered makeup case from amongst a jumble of luggage.

When she turned back, Crowley had completely disrobed and lay, stretched out like a centerfold, across the bed.

“Oh yes, hello.”

“Hi angel,” she smiled back.

Aziraphale approached the bed and set the box upon it. She crawled up over the piles of pillows and blankets to where the demon reclined in still display.

“You are a vision,” Aziraphale said and kissed one pointed bony shoulder. Crowley’s skin was velvety. “May I touch?”

Crowley made a noise, part sigh and part hiss and let herself fall to her back. “Whatever you like. Touch, taste. It’s yours. All yours.”

Aziraphale felt she might have to conjure more eyes, just to have enough to take in every angle of the demon’s body. With a shaking hand, she placed it flat against Crowley’s heart. “It’s yours. It’s yours, and I want to share it.” She felt the heavy beat against her palm. Could barely stand the way she wanted to touch and stare and, yes, taste. Feel everything with every bit of her being. Crowley reached up to grasp her wrist loosely. Holding her there.

“This is real,” Crowley said out into the room. “This is happening.”

“It is.”

The demon growled and rolled, and all her bare surface area surged against Aziraphale’s fully clothed body. 

“Oh not yet,” the words danced across the space between them. “You made me get my collection, so you are going to have to wait for me to get ready!”

“Mmmmmmnn fine.”

Aziraphale extracted herself from the coil of buck-naked demon and opened the box. Crowley, after her initial diabolical display had received the attention she had wanted, curled up close to Aziraphale and peered over her shoulder. She reached up as the angel displayed each item and continued to run her fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, thumbing the nape of her neck, drawing on lines of power and harnessing tiny miracles to hum against her skin in exquisite, rapturous style.

“What about this one,” she held up a small, dark blue plug with a flared base. “I like to place this first and wear it throughout the experience.” She looked back at Crowley’s wide-eyed stare. “Too much?”

Crowley gulped. “No. ‘S good.”

She considered it, then stated, “no, we’ll save this for next time,” and placed it back in the box. Crowley was again moving her body, this time, rubbing her hand between her legs and rutting solidly against Aziraphale’s thick backside.

“Oh you tease.” And then, “is this ok if I do this against you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale hummed. “Oh here, I don’t want you to worry about making a mess.” She started to undo her trouser buttons. “I really ought to—”

Crowley lifted a hand to snap and raised an eyebrow.

“Mmmmm. Yes, alright you impatient creature. Go ahead.”

Crowley grinned and snapped her fingers. Aziraphale’s clothes miracled into a neat pile on the bench at the foot of the bed. Both fully nude, the places where they touched surged with heat and attraction. They both let their eyes fall shut for a moment, before Aziraphale breathed a luscious sigh.

“Hurry up and choose another one,” Crowley said, as she continued to hump up against her.

Aziraphale’s fingers felt clumsy as she searched through the items. 

“I think,” she said finally, setting aside a vibrating egg and a medium sized ribbed dildo, “that these will do nicely for a first try.” Heady with desire, she set the box on the floor and rolled over so she was on top of Crowley’s body. “Oh my darling, you look. You look.” Words failed her. “I want you so badly.”

“I need you angel,” she groaned, still stroking herself. “Show me those things. Show me what you’ll do with them.”

They kissed, and Crowley bucked up against her, searing a line of connection from hip to chest. She dragged herself from attending to her own gratification and grabbed two handfuls of Aziraphale’s ass. The angel cried out against her mouth and Crowley shushed her.

“Please I want this. I want this so bad.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s voice shook. “I know.” 

They writhed against one another, lost in the overwhelming lust. Crowley’s quim had made a wet mess on her thigh, and she still hadn’t let up with her movements.

Aziraphale pried herself away and reached for the dildo. “I daresay this won’t take long." She ran her fingers against Crowley’s slit, feeling her natural lubrication slick on her fingertips. “You are so wet. So wet.” She let her finger side shallowly inside, then withdrew.

“For you,” Crowley gasped. “You did that.”

Aziraphale tutted and ran the toy up and down her entrance. As she had with her finger, she slid the toy in up to the first ridge, then pulled it back out. Crowley keened beneath her and jerked her hips forward.

“I am going to place this in you. I know you like that.”

“Oh angel!” Crowley cried out. She slid the toy in, rubbing it first against her g-spot, then sinking it in to its base. Crowley howled.

“Yes,” Aziraphale’s heart hammered and her browline was dampened by sweat. “Good. Oh that sounded lovely. Did you like that?”

“Please angel,” Crowley’s voice was wrecked. “Please hurry!”

Azirphale’s face hurt from smiling. She was certain she looked an absolute fool, but she couldn't care less. Crowley grasped the toy, fucking herself with it as her other hand held onto Aziraphale’s hip for dear life.

“Oh darling.” She leaned in as Crowley’s eyes glazed over, her inhalations coming in dry wheezing gasps. She kissed against her mouth, but the demon was close, so very close, and she was making sounds now, noises as her breathing became rough and desperate. She sunk her mouth instead and closed it around Crowley’s breast. The demon screeched as Aziraphale sucked and licked her tongue against her skin. It was delicious. She’d never known a treat quite like it. She sucked it hard and pulled off, mortified but proud to see the purple halo she’d raised around the bud of her nipple. She repeated the motions with the other breast, while using her hand to continue to tease the demon’s nipple.

Crowley was still breathing hard, but she had stopped the movement of thrusting on the toy, concentrating it seemed on the attention being lavished on her breasts. 

Aziraphale reached over for the vibrator and turned it on. Palming the egg, she brought it to her own clit and ground down upon it. It felt better than heaven. She moaned and threw back her head.

Crowley started bucking against her again. “Oh yes, oh fuck. Oh! Look at you! Oh yes!”

Leaning forward then, she held the egg between them both, letting the vibrations ripple through their corporations. No longer a fragile bubble, apparently, Crowley wrapped her arms around Aziraphlales back and pulled her in, fucking up against her, fucking the toy and holding them both against the vibrator. Aziraphale tensed. She’d known she wouldn’t last long.

The explosion of pleasure overtook them both, and their pulsing climax whited out the world. Aziraphale buried her face in the mattress as she came. They rode out their raw indelicate human orgasm together, in panting, heaving, thrusting glory. Crowley’s vocalizations were unworldly, and she hoped that whatever wards she had in place would hold back the truly demonic, guttural noises from terrifying any passersby.

On another level, she really didn’t give a fuck.

-

In the simmering afterward, miracling the toys clean and replacing them in their storage with a thought, Aziraphale pulled back the covers of her bed and wrestled the limp demon underneath to lie next to her.

“There’s so much.” Crowley babbled. “I can’t believe it. Oh fuck. Oh fuck that was wonderful.”

Aziraphale held her and nuzzled under her chin. “You put up a good fight.”

“Oh fuck I did not. I give up. You win. Whatever. You can win whenever you want.” 

She didn’t argue. She let Crowley continue to mumble nothings until she drifted to unconscious. And then, she only held her and let the feeling of contentment settle over her. It didn’t matter. They’d won.


End file.
